Black Widow (5 page)

Ursula wanted to take Maria by the shoulders, and shake some sense into her; to say,
It’s only a fucking play. Why don’t you devote your energies to real life. To me?

‘You were great,’ she said.

‘Thanks!’ Maria gave her a grateful pat on the arm. ‘So where did you go afterwards?’

‘Oh, I went out for a walk. I ended up in a bar.’

‘On your own?’

‘God, Maria, this is the twenty-first century. We don’t need to be escorted everywhere.’

‘Well, I don’t think
I
could do it,’ Maria stated.

‘Well, you and I are a quite different, aren’t we? It’s why we work so well together.’

The lecture finally drew to a close, and Ursula shepherded her friend outside. She’d recently discovered a pretty little arbour, set in the cleft of the old hospital kitchen, which would be a perfect spot to spend time together. The butterflies flitted about her stomach at the thought of it.

‘Maria.’

It was their tutor, Dr Bleeker. A paternalistic fool. The last thing she needed was the interference of a self-appointed father figure. Especially
now
.

‘You need to come with me, Maria,’ he said, wringing his hands all the while. ‘It’s the police. They want to speak with you.’

The blood drained completely from Maria’s face. ‘Mikael?’ she stammered. ‘Is it Mikael?’

‘Please, Maria, follow me,’ was all Bleeker would say.

Maria did so, Ursula a pace behind. They moved along hitherto secret corridors, through a portion of the Binnengasthuis which, in darker days, had resounded to the cries of the mentally ill.

Two faces drifted into view. She saw a middle-aged woman, of somewhat less than medium height. She was soberly dressed in a dark skirt and light blouse, but there was a sense that a fit body lurked beneath. There was a haunted quality to her expression, whilst the lines on her face told the tale of some past trauma, albeit in a language which eluded Ursula’s powers of translation. Her eyes were the colour of burnt terracotta, or Tuscan sunsets. Such heat, when everything else about her was set cold.

Her hair was short, and dark, and all in all it was a look which might have conveyed some other connotation, if not for the aura of obvious and pained heterosexuality which surrounded her. Ursula was skilled at spotting the signs; she knew a slave to that hateful convention when she saw one.

There was a man, too.

‘This is Maria,’ Dr Bleeker said. ‘And her friend, Ursula.’

‘I am Detective Inspector Pino,’ the woman introduced herself as Bleeker left. ‘And this is Detective Kissin. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Ms Berger, if I may. Concerning Mikael Ruben.’

‘Can Ursula stay?’ Maria asked tremulously.

Detective Pino nodded, her expression conveying what might almost have been compassion. ‘For the moment. So, the first question concerns your whereabouts yesterday evening.’

‘I was at the theatre,’ Maria replied. ‘I’m a member of the Theatrical Society. It was our opening night of our play.’

‘What time did the play finish?’ Pino asked.

Maria placed her head in her hands. She was starting to shake. ‘About ten o’clock, I think.’

‘And where did you go afterwards?’

‘To a party. At the director’s house, on Linden Straat. He gave me a lift.’ She looked to Ursula for support. But Ursula could only stare.

And squeeze her friend’s hand. Maria flashed her a grateful look. Ursula nodded, and battled to keep her happiness to herself.

‘Mikael said that he was going to try to get there,’ Maria continued. ‘But he never came.’

‘Did you try to phone him?’ Kissin asked.

‘Yes,’ Maria replied. ‘Of course.’

‘But there was no answer?’

‘No. It just kept ringing until it went through to his answering service.’

‘And after the party, Ms. Berger?’ Pino pressed. ‘What then?’

‘I stayed for a few hours. And then I went home.’ She shook her head. ‘But please, what’s happened?’

Pino sighed. ‘I’m sorry Maria. There’s been a murder. Mikael is dead.’

What followed was mostly a blur. Pino put her arm around Maria’s shoulders – Ursula could have punched her for it, the bitch – then shepherded the sobbing girl away to a car. Ursula tried to follow, of course she did, but the brutish man stayed her with a shake of his head.

So she retreated to her secret arbour, alone. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, placid, girl-like.

But only for a moment. She felt an itching at her wrist, which soon spread up her arm. She knew what it was. She rolled up her sleeve, nodding in satisfaction at the network of old scars, the most recent wound still covered in a scab.

She fished her scalpel out of her bag, and took off the plastic guard. With delightful, excruciating slowness, she carved an
M
in the fleshy part below her elbow.

She followed the streak of crimson at it intertwined with her fingers. It provided confirmation, of sorts, of what was happening inside. Maybe that was the most important thing.

There was a black space inside her. It forged blood, thick black blood, congealed before its time. And it was beautiful, because the alternative was to be a husk. Like her mother, perhaps.

She took a few moments to compose her thoughts, then dabbed the blood away with a tissue and dropped the scalpel back into her bag.

There was a camera in there. And a phone. And an apple. A set of keys. Her purse. The usual stuff.

There was also a pocket, a secret pocket, built into the base. She unzipped it, removing her prize with trembling fingers.

It was another phone. With twenty-three missed calls.

Mikael Ruben’s.

*

In an oak-panelled room of antique books, the air musty with a dander of old glue and parchment, Mikael Ruben’s killer sat down to take tea.

A map of Amsterdam was laid out before her. It had been adulterated with a succession of red crosses, marking the recent movements of her new friend. Of course, Jasper Endqvist didn’t
know
that they were friends, just yet.

There were photographs of Jasper, too, depicting a successful, handsome man. He worked for an insurance company, but not out of desperation, or a lack of viable alternatives; he rather seemed to enjoy his work immensely. He was a creature of ordered, regular habit. She was sure that she might turn this to their mutual advantage.

She sipped at her drink, her eyes downcast as she peered through the window to the outside world. The sky, as reflected in the canal, had turned a pale, milky white, as if all the other colours had been scorched away. She stepped outside of herself for a moment; the heavens seemed curdled with portent.

She drew the curtains. Her hand was shaking, and that was odd; she had never felt so in control.

It was all relative, she supposed. She was pleased at the progress she was making.

She treated herself to a biscuit, and afterwards retired to a somewhat smaller room. Save for a set of apothecary’s jars, purchased that very morning from a local antique dealer, it was completely devoid of furnishings.

Three of the jars were quite empty. The fourth was less so.

Chapter 4

On the simplest, most instinctive level, Pieter was fairly sure that Maria Berger was telling the truth, that she’d had nothing to do with Mikael Ruben’s death. The catch in her voice, the slow unfurling of her limbs, the sense that her body’s internal rhythms had been halted, that they might never start up again – each spoke of her shock, and therefore innocence.

The interview had dragged on for two hours, and they didn’t seem to be making any progress. Maria had sunk back into her grief, her eyes glazed over, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. More often than not she didn’t seem to hear Tanja’s questions; or if she did, her typical response was to start crying again, albeit it in a quiet, low-key fashion. True, Pieter knew that she had a theatrical side, that she might conceivably be putting on a show – but the thing about
acting
, as he saw it, was that it was necessarily exaggerated.

‘Must we carry on?’ the other occupant of the room said. ‘Maria
obviously
had nothing to do with this.’

Tanja turned her unblinking gaze towards Maria’s mother. ‘No one said that she did, Mrs Berger.’

‘Then what is she doing here? She should be at home.’

‘And soon she will be,’ said Tanja. ‘But she may have some piece of information that helps with the apprehension of the culprit.’

‘You don’t have children, do you detective?’ said Anita.

Tanja paused a moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

Anita Berger leant back in her chair. The air-conditioning was broken again, and the sweat leaked from the margin of her blonde hair, to merge in unsympathetic fashion with distinct layers of makeup. She might once have been very pretty, perhaps even a match for her daughter, but whereas there was a delicacy to Maria’s appearance, Anita had abandoned all notion of subtlety. Her skirt was cut on the well-ventilated side of daring, whilst her breasts seemed to be considering an escape for freedom. A crucifix jiggled provocatively on a chain of silver links, as if intent on humping her cleavage. Her skin was tanned, but more in the sense of leather than anything. When Pieter looked at her, one word came into his mind:
melanoma
.

There was a knock at the door. Pieter came to with a little start. He hadn’t realised, but he’d been slouching. He eased himself aloft, recalling a seminar on bio-mechanics at the Academy. The way a person sat could alter blood flow to the brain, impeding mental capacity by anything up to five per cent. He took a few sips of water: dehydration could be even more disruptive.

‘Come in,’ said Tanja.

Harald Janssen appeared, and handed Tanja a note. She studied it for a moment, then passed it to Pieter.

It seemed that Maria’s story checked out. She’d been at the
Universiteitstheater
on Nieuwe Doelenstraat from four in the afternoon, and had been in the company of at least one witness from that point until three the following morning, when she’d left the party at the director’s house in Jordaan. Pieter was pleased that his initial judgment had been corroborated. They already knew that Mikael Ruben and Hester Goldberg had booked into the hotel at nine-thirty; whilst Erik Polderhuis had estimated the time of death as between eight-thirty and midnight. It couldn’t have been Maria.

Then Pieter noticed that Tanja was looking at him. And not with any great enthusiasm. She frowned, and blinked once, slowly. Maybe Pieter was reading too much into her expression, but there seemed to be a warning there. He looked away, wondering what he might have done now.

And then he saw that Anita Berger was looking at him closely, too, and licking her lips whilst she did so. Christ! What was
that
about?

Maria wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I want to go,’ she said.

‘To your flat?’ Tanja asked.

‘No,’ her mother answered for her. ‘Home. My home.
Our
home.’

Tanja nodded. ‘Of course. I think we are done here.’ She checked her watch. ‘Interview concluded at three-fifteen pm.’ There was a snap, as she switched off the tape recorder.

‘You will look after Maria, Mrs Berger?’ Tanja asked.

Anita nodded, gently at first, then with greater vigour. ‘Of course. Always.’

‘Well, I will make a call to the
Bureau Slachtofferhulp
, anyway.’

Anita shook her head a fraction. ‘Victim Support? No, really, there’s no need. Maria has me. She doesn’t need anyone else.’

*

Outside in the car park, Pieter watched as Tanja tugged open the Opel’s door and thumped down into the driver’s seat – only to yelp as the bare skin of her legs came into contact with hot black plastic. She did a funny little buttock dance, which reminded him a little of mothers trying to get funky at wedding discos.

‘Maybe you should leave the window open a bit,’ Pieter suggested. ‘Or wear trousers.’

‘Shut up, boy.’

‘Boy?’

‘Sorry, did I get the gender wrong?’

Tanja jammed the key into the ignition, rattling it this way and that to disengage the steering lock. Pieter tactfully looked elsewhere as she struggled to get the car running. Her curses were delivered in some southern dialect, he noted with interest; Limburgish, maybe?

The car fired up with a cough of blue smoke. Pieter barely had time to drop into his seat – still hot – before Tanja was off along Elandsgracht.

‘Where are we going?’ Pieter asked. ‘Ruben’s place?’

Tanja grunted. ‘You think he might have left us a little black book of names and addresses?’

‘Well, it doesn’t have to be black, I suppose.’

‘It’s possible,’ Tanja conceded. ‘But a detective would need to be spectacularly lucky to unearth something like that.’

‘So –?’

‘I’ve already asked Harald Janssen to take a look at it.’

Pieter nodded. ‘So what about us?’

‘Well, we’re off to that bar. The Den, on Enge Lombardsteeg.’

‘Ruben had a receipt for there,’ Pieter recalled.

‘So, if the time on the receipt is anything to go by, it seems quite likely that he went straight from there to the hotel. Perhaps our friend Hester was with him.’

‘He might have arranged to meet her at the hotel, though,’ Pieter pointed out.

Tanja didn’t answer and Pieter could tell by the set of his partner’s jaw that she was in no mood for idle speculation. And maybe he’d gone a bit far, teasing her like that. But it had always been his way: whenever he was nervous, something in his unconscious mind determined that the best course of action was to laugh at the source of his fear. He would have to keep a check on it.

So instead he looked through the window, taking in the sights and sounds of his new home. He knew a little of Jordaan’s history, of the incendiary class riots which had flared amidst its gentle gardens during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; of the February Strike of 1941, when the locals had bravely protested against Nazi treatment of the Jews. There was a statue, somewhere, commemorating the fact. But it all seemed very quiet now. Very safe.

‘The Prinsengracht,’ Tanja noted, as they steered a path beside a canal, its bronzed surface silvered here and there with the frothy wake of pleasure cruisers. ‘Part of the
Grachtengordel
. So, we have the Prinsengracht, the Herengracht, and the Keizersgracht. Each forms what you might term a concentric ring around the city. Except they aren’t really rings. They’re more like decagons or something.’